Likeness
to underestimate the power of hope
is to slather the cracks of your skin
in your grandmother’s face cream
kept, half-open, in front of the rust
dusted mirror— scent of
english lavender masking thinly
the slicing of purple onions,
swollen like eyes, tossed with salt and lemon
in a bowl next to the aching varnish of the puja.
to underestimate the power of hope
is to wear your dead grandmother’s lipstick
and look yourself in the eye,
poking your tongue on the inside of your cheek,
so desperate to find the likeness
that you scare yourself into finding her face
etched in the marrow of your jawline
and you are so afraid that you
scratch the lipstick from your mouth
burning the back of your hand
with a sticky plum bruise and
you hope you might return to your own body
but it is too late. no matter how many times
you splash your face with cold water
you will never wash away the image
of your grandmother, giggling with your dimples
and rubbing lipstick on her teeth
every time you try to smile.